Page 136 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“No, I said I couldn’t skate well.”

“And what does that mean?”

She did some fancy little swirl in front of me. “It means I used to think I was going to be a figure skater.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you’re an expert skater.”

“Not an expert, but I can hold my own.”

Clem glided past me like she was auditioning for the Winter Olympics. She moved with grace and confidence on the ice. It took my breath away. She executed perfect turns and even attempted a small jump that she landed flawlessly.

“Show off,” I called out, finally managing to push myself away from the wall for all of three seconds before my ankles betrayed me and I went down hard on my ass.

Clem skated over to me, laughing so hard she could barely catch her breath. “Oh my God, are you okay?” She extended a gloved hand to help me up, but she was still giggling.

“My pride is severely wounded, but I think I’ll survive,” I said, accepting her help. Her grip was steady, and somehow she managed to pull me up without losing her own balance.

“Where did you learn to skate like that?” I asked, trying not to focus on how her cheeks were flushed from the cold and exercise, or how her eyes were sparkling with mirth.

“I took lessons for eight years.” She stayed close to me as we slowly made our way around the rink, her hand in mine providing both physical and emotional support. “My mom used to take me to the outdoor rink every weekend in the winter. I was on the figure-skating team in high school.”

“Of course you were,” I said, shaking my head. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

We managed to make it around the rink three more times without me falling, though it was clear that Clem was basically holding me up the entire time. By the time we returned our skates, I was ready to get my feet back on solid ground, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had that much fun making a complete fool of myself.

“I think that counts as the most embarrassing first date performance in history,” I said as we walked away from Rockefeller Center, my arm around her shoulders.

“Are you kidding? That was adorable.” She grinned up at me. “Plus, it gave me an excuse to hold your hand for an hour.”

“In that case, it was a complete success.”

The restaurant I had chosen for our dinner was a small, unassuming place tucked away in Little Italy. From the outside, it looked like nothing special, just another narrow storefront with a faded awning and windows that had seen better days. But inside, it was warm and cozy, with checkered tablecloths, dim lighting, and the kind of atmosphere that made you want to settle in for hours.

“This place is perfect,” Clem said as we were seated at a corner table. “How did you find it?”

“My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid,” I said. She knew my mother, so I could talk about her, even though I never talked to anyone about my family for obvious reasons. “She said they had the best seafood outside of the Gulf Coast, and she was right.”

The food was every bit as good as I remembered. We shared a platter of oysters, followed by the most incredible seafood pasta I ever had. We finished with tiramisu that was practically a religious experience. The wine helped loosen our tongues, and conversation flowed as easily as it always did between us.

“So, what are you plans for the holidays?” she asked. “Does your family do a big get-together? I can only imagine how loud and rowdy that must be. I met five and it was as loud as a football stadium.”

“There will probably be some meals,” I said. “It’s not typically planned to happen all at once, although it usually ends up like that. What about you?”

“My family is pretty traditional,” she said. “We have a few holiday parties leading up to Christmas, but Christmas Eve is always just the four of us. We wear matching pajamas—yes, it’s as cheesy as it sounds but we love it—and we open one present each. Then Christmas dinner is usually pretty simple. Ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. Nothing fancy, but it’s perfect. It’s less about eating one big meal and just kind of munching all day and hanging out.”

The warmth in her voice when she talked about her family made something ache in my chest. I could picture it so clearly, Clem in ridiculous Christmas pajamas, laughing with Henry over some inside joke while her parents looked on with that satisfied contentment that came from watching your children be happy.

“That sounds really nice,” I said, meaning it. “Very Norman Rockwell.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Big Italian Christmas with the whole extended family?”

I took a sip of wine, considering how to answer that. The truth was complicated, layered with years of careful boundaries and unspoken rules about who was included in what gatherings.

“Actually, it’s usually just me and my mom,” I said finally. “We have Christmas dinner at her house. She cooks, I help in the kitchen, and we pretend we’re not both thinking about who’s missing from the table.”

Clem’s expression softened. “Your father.”

I nodded. “Yeah. My mom visits him on Christmas morning, brings him some of his favorite cookies. But I don’t…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain the complicated mix of anger, guilt, and grief that surrounded my relationship with my father.